23 Tributes (preview)
Right, so just thought I'd post a preview of 23 Tributes because it's going to be really long. Also, my fuck-buddy has been asking for it.
(the story goes with Harry describing his experience with each of the other 23 tributes he shares the Games with. that's what the numbers are for.)
[Preview]
Harry doesn't know what to feel, what to do now. He'd never thought he'd be chosen on Reaping Day, but then again, why not? Gemma was reaped too, wasn't she? (And killed and chopped into bits and horribly butchered, Harry's mind thinks, but he shushes his brain. He isn't ready to deal with anything else, right now. He can't really, he seems to have lost all control of his limbs and vocal chords.)
And then, luckily, just a second before the Gamemakers boom the final countdown to one, he regains his senses and and looks around at the circle of kids and teenagers, the tributes of the 23rd Hunger Games. Fitting, 23 more tributes to end him in the 23rd Hunger Games.
He decides then, that if he's going to die, he might as well spend his last moments remembering this world, and its people.
01.
The moment the cannon booms, he's running, running running running, and it feels like his feet have barely touched the ground. The arena this year is the woods, all pines and needles and scratchy tips that only look pretty in the winter. And it feels pretty cold too, he guesses.
His hands brush over the strap of a backpack, and then he weaves in and out the crowd of scrambling legs and darting hands, ducking to grab another- sword? Good, good, that's good, he thinks, he can use a sword and he's pretty decent with it too. Something warm splatters the back of his neck as he feet kick up dirt on the way to the woods, is that blood? Fuck, he curses as he tries to speed up without over exhausting himself too much. "Don't waste too much energy if you can," his mentor Cowell had said. "You don't know how long you're gonna be in there before you find some water, food, something to replenish yourself. Conserve your energy. Conserve."
He can still hear Cowell's deep voice in his mind, and he isn't even aware until, bam!, he flies into someone. Literally, he knocks into another tribute, their knees and foreheads clacking together with a resounding sound, and suddenly he's looking up into the canopy of the trees.
He's being dragged up again, pressed to the bark of a tree, the feel of it gnarly and irritating his back. His eyes focus again, then he realizes who he's looking at.
District 2.
It was hard to tell that this blonde, blue-eyed boy was from District 2- everywhere he had noticed him, the smaller boy exuded so much happiness and innocence.
He was wrong, obviously.
Looking into the boy's eyes can tell him that- blue, so blue, and calm. They're the eyes of a predator, willing to kill. He tries not to think about the shiny, sharp blade of a steel and exquisitely carved dagger pressed against his throat. The pressure is nearly splitting his skin now, drawing droplets of blood. His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps down the possibility that he's barely ten minutes into the Games and he's about to die. He's about to die.
No, Harry, he tells himself. Shut the fuck up. Concentrate. Make use of your surroundings, or whatever it was that Cowell had said.
But Harry's still at a loss of how the smaller boy is able to hoist him up, suffocating him with an arm. He tries to reason not fighting the boy, but he feels so helpless, submissive to his fate. The boy digs the tip of the dagger into his throat, emotionless.
Then the boy looks up to him, and suddenly the heavens are shining on him.
The blonde boy- he remembers now, the one with the weird accent and the deadly ability to kill anyone with a knife- halts suddenly, a tumult of emotions flickering all over his face. They're like rainbow-coloured glass shattering, pretty and shiny and too many to be distracting. Harry can't tell what it is, there are too many to note.
"G-Greg?" he blurts almost inaudibly, almost. Harry's still wondering who Greg is to this boy, when the blonde releases him.
Harry's first instinct is to flee, his brain and he knows his mentor and the viewers back home are screaming at him too, but he can't. For some reason, he's affected by this boy who now looks so vulnerable and lost, like he doesn't know how to kill and he doesn't know what he's doing here in the Games.
But then there's a rustling of leaves and a crunch of twigs up ahead, the pounding of feet nearing them, and the blonde boy gestures to him, sprinting ahead. Harry follows immediately, not because he trusts him, because he doesn't, but because he doesn't really know what else to do.
The pair of them escape the potential fight unscathed, still not slowing down after ten minutes.
"I'm Niall," he calls out over his shoulder, and suddenly, they're allies.
"Harry," he shouts as loudly as he dares, breathing ragged.
And that is that. Niall is the first tribute Harry meets and takes note of, and with and ally by his side, he feels slightly more secure.
Ha.
(the story goes with Harry describing his experience with each of the other 23 tributes he shares the Games with. that's what the numbers are for.)
[Preview]
Harry doesn't know what to feel, what to do now. He'd never thought he'd be chosen on Reaping Day, but then again, why not? Gemma was reaped too, wasn't she? (And killed and chopped into bits and horribly butchered, Harry's mind thinks, but he shushes his brain. He isn't ready to deal with anything else, right now. He can't really, he seems to have lost all control of his limbs and vocal chords.)
And then, luckily, just a second before the Gamemakers boom the final countdown to one, he regains his senses and and looks around at the circle of kids and teenagers, the tributes of the 23rd Hunger Games. Fitting, 23 more tributes to end him in the 23rd Hunger Games.
He decides then, that if he's going to die, he might as well spend his last moments remembering this world, and its people.
01.
The moment the cannon booms, he's running, running running running, and it feels like his feet have barely touched the ground. The arena this year is the woods, all pines and needles and scratchy tips that only look pretty in the winter. And it feels pretty cold too, he guesses.
His hands brush over the strap of a backpack, and then he weaves in and out the crowd of scrambling legs and darting hands, ducking to grab another- sword? Good, good, that's good, he thinks, he can use a sword and he's pretty decent with it too. Something warm splatters the back of his neck as he feet kick up dirt on the way to the woods, is that blood? Fuck, he curses as he tries to speed up without over exhausting himself too much. "Don't waste too much energy if you can," his mentor Cowell had said. "You don't know how long you're gonna be in there before you find some water, food, something to replenish yourself. Conserve your energy. Conserve."
He can still hear Cowell's deep voice in his mind, and he isn't even aware until, bam!, he flies into someone. Literally, he knocks into another tribute, their knees and foreheads clacking together with a resounding sound, and suddenly he's looking up into the canopy of the trees.
He's being dragged up again, pressed to the bark of a tree, the feel of it gnarly and irritating his back. His eyes focus again, then he realizes who he's looking at.
District 2.
It was hard to tell that this blonde, blue-eyed boy was from District 2- everywhere he had noticed him, the smaller boy exuded so much happiness and innocence.
He was wrong, obviously.
Looking into the boy's eyes can tell him that- blue, so blue, and calm. They're the eyes of a predator, willing to kill. He tries not to think about the shiny, sharp blade of a steel and exquisitely carved dagger pressed against his throat. The pressure is nearly splitting his skin now, drawing droplets of blood. His Adam's apple bobs as he gulps down the possibility that he's barely ten minutes into the Games and he's about to die. He's about to die.
No, Harry, he tells himself. Shut the fuck up. Concentrate. Make use of your surroundings, or whatever it was that Cowell had said.
But Harry's still at a loss of how the smaller boy is able to hoist him up, suffocating him with an arm. He tries to reason not fighting the boy, but he feels so helpless, submissive to his fate. The boy digs the tip of the dagger into his throat, emotionless.
Then the boy looks up to him, and suddenly the heavens are shining on him.
The blonde boy- he remembers now, the one with the weird accent and the deadly ability to kill anyone with a knife- halts suddenly, a tumult of emotions flickering all over his face. They're like rainbow-coloured glass shattering, pretty and shiny and too many to be distracting. Harry can't tell what it is, there are too many to note.
"G-Greg?" he blurts almost inaudibly, almost. Harry's still wondering who Greg is to this boy, when the blonde releases him.
Harry's first instinct is to flee, his brain and he knows his mentor and the viewers back home are screaming at him too, but he can't. For some reason, he's affected by this boy who now looks so vulnerable and lost, like he doesn't know how to kill and he doesn't know what he's doing here in the Games.
But then there's a rustling of leaves and a crunch of twigs up ahead, the pounding of feet nearing them, and the blonde boy gestures to him, sprinting ahead. Harry follows immediately, not because he trusts him, because he doesn't, but because he doesn't really know what else to do.
The pair of them escape the potential fight unscathed, still not slowing down after ten minutes.
"I'm Niall," he calls out over his shoulder, and suddenly, they're allies.
"Harry," he shouts as loudly as he dares, breathing ragged.
And that is that. Niall is the first tribute Harry meets and takes note of, and with and ally by his side, he feels slightly more secure.
Ha.